


Destiny

by redtoblack



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Eliot being High King in his Blood, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, ish - more like a rewrite and extension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28564359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoblack/pseuds/redtoblack
Summary: Eliot has a lot riding on his shoulders. But just because his friends are leaving Fillory doesn't mean they won't help him stand tall before they go.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	Destiny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grimweather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimweather/gifts).



> King-related emotions abound! <3
> 
> Thank you stormcoming for betaing!

The look in his eyes. Eliot could have drowned in it. Hair a soft sweep over his jaw, those ridiculous, wonderfully expressive eyebrows knitted together in focus.

_So, destiny is — it’s bullshit. But —_

Everything around them had melted away, no more than streaks of water down the outside of a window, instead of rain a thundering pulse in his ears that drowned out everything but Quentin’s words.

_But you are High King in your blood. And somehow that makes sense, you know?_

If Eliot hadn’t started out on his knees, he would’ve ended up there. One way or another. Quentin’s faith was one thing that never failed to bring him to heel, shaken but sure. Eliot could almost believe the things he said, when he said them like that.

They hadn’t talked much on the trek back, a somber mood taking their thoughts and muting their words. Quentin had been off somewhere, with Alice probably, and Margo was checking the armory to see what kind of equipment they were dealing with, and Penny was — eh, somewhere — while Eliot had come into the record room to think.

Well, he had come here with the intention to read records, find out more about what it really meant to be king of this whimsical shithole. But the more he read, the more fine print came to light which no one had bothered to tell him, the more questions he kicked himself for not asking sooner — the more he just wanted to stop. And think.

Well, drink, technically. But he wasn’t doing that anymore. Not as much at least. Thinking was a poor substitute, but — good thing he didn’t have to do it for long, because the thoughts stopped as the tears started, something cracking in his chest as soon as he realized he was gonna be alone. They were all leaving. And yeah, sure, they were coming back, but no one could tell him fucking _when,_ and he took in the record room with bitter, blurry resentment. He had better get used to the view.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, trying to breathe evenly and ignoring how he failed, the heels of his hands slowly dripping water onto the floor from where they pressed sparks into his eyelids, before there were footsteps in the hall.

Fuck. He shook out his hands, wiped them on his slacks — his _only_ pair of slacks, now — and tried to dry his eyes in a way that wouldn’t make them even more puffy. His intestines twisted themselves into an ugly, painful knot. This was no way for a king to act. If he couldn’t lock up his shit, how the hell was he supposed to take care of an entire _kingdom,_ nope, no, he couldn’t do this, no way, all he was good for was drawing a knee up to his chest and hiding pathetically as the tears started again, uncaring of whoever was about to turn the corner.

“Eliot, what — hey, oh shit, what, um, hey are you okay?” Quentin’s voice scuttled across him as he tried to land on a good response, coming over to sit right next to him, a tentative hand light on his shoulder. Of course he didn’t know what to say. What the fuck are you supposed to say to a situation like Eliot’s. And they hadn’t actually talked since a few nights ago with him and Margo, which Eliot could barely remember but Bambi had assured him was a very nice time, although Q’s behavior indicated otherwise.

But then — the coronation. The things he had said. The way he looked at Eliot, like he could do no wrong — like he would forgive him if he did. Eliot should let him go. He shouldn’t have to do that for him.

“You know,” Eliot began, his voice sounding fucking disgusting through the tears, “it’s considered extremely disrespectful to touch a king without permission.” Just another way being king sucked. Everyone bowing and scraping all the time. Not because Eliot had earned their respect, no, or even their fear. Just because he was the king and being king had rules.

“Oh,” said Quentin, and after a moment awkwardly lifted his hand from Eliot’s shoulder.

But, fuck. That was worse.

“But.” Shit. “Um.” How should he — ? “I think.” Jesus. Fucking ovary up, Waugh. “You should probably hug me right now,” he gritted out, daring a look through his hands to see Quentin looking down at him, just in time to watch his expression crumple in concern as he leaned over to wrap his arms around Eliot’s shoulders.

He could feel the way he shook even more acutely in Quentin’s hold. Like a child huddling under a blanket, unable to face the horrors of the world. A snot-nosed kid with a too-big crown.

But at this point, he didn’t have a whole lot to lose, now did he? Dignity: gone, restraint: gone, reputation: gone, world: gone. After today, Quentin and Margo: gone.

A sob scraped its way from somewhere deep down, dragging through his throat, and he turned against Quentin’s chest to wrap around his waist, burying his face in his shoulder, never mind the height difference. If Quentin wanted to hold him when he felt small, Eliot could stand to let him.

One arm was tightening around his back, and he let himself be tugged closer, pressed into the warmth of Quentin’s chest. He remembered this, how Q liked to be close to people, the way he’d all but burrowed in between Eliot and Margo as they fell asleep that night. But Quentin’s other hand lifted and reappeared against the back of Eliot’s head, soothing gently, and he’d started swaying them together, and putting quiet words of comfort right in Eliot’s ear.

And Eliot — must have. He must have done something to deserve this. Right? Either way, he had it.

His breath eased first, no longer racking, heaving shivers against Quentin’s hold. Then that burning ache faded from behind his eyes, until the tears were leaving him without fuss, soaking straight into Quentin’s sweater, and then eventually, even those stopped.

Now it was just — them. Eliot, not even shamed by his outburst, not with the warmth of a friend keeping the world away. Quentin. The patterns his fingers were tracing at the very top of Eliot’s spine, idle circles and careful strokes, soothed him almost into sleepiness, relaxing the white-knuckled control he’d been keeping on his lungs. Experimentally, he breathed in deep, and the sudden influx of scent from Quentin’s generic shampoo shocked him into a laugh.

Quentin pulled back a little, keeping his hand stretched broad and comforting on Eliot’s shoulder. “What’s — um, I mean. If you don’t wanna —” he stopped, flattening his lips into a line. The very picture of caring concern.

“Oh, Q,” Eliot sighed, disentangling himself to wipe at his face, then allowing a lean to press up against Quentin’s side, rest his temple on his shoulder. “I don’t know what I’m doing. All I do know is I’m not fit to be king. With you by my side? With Margo, with Alice? Maybe. But not...just me. I can’t even,” he chuckled and gestured to the record books strewn around them, because on some level it had to be funny, “I can’t even read about my responsibilities without breaking down. I want to try, and I will, but — seriously, what am I going to be able to do to live up to all this? Like, Fen, why shouldn’t she be High King, if she’s qualified to be Queen?”

The motions of Quentin’s hand on his shoulder faltered, and when Eliot looked up, he was staring thoughtfully out at the shelves of record books.

“Do you trust me?” he said after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“Then believe me when I say you can do this. That you have been meant for something like this since the moment I met you.” And god, he was so fucking _earnest,_ it wasn’t fair.

“And — I bet I can prove it to you, actually. Hold — um, hold on,” he said, haltingly pulling away from Eliot’s weight. Eliot caught himself on one hand, feeling gingerly around the edges of the patch on his heart, pleased to find that they were strong enough to keep him from feeling hurt as Quentin pulled away.

He wasn’t going far, anyway — just over to a shelf on the left side of the room, looking carefully at the written labels, skimming titles and eventually pulling out two hefty leather-bound books.

“What are we doing?” Eliot asked, and his voice didn’t even waver.

“We,” Quentin replied smugly, contorting himself into his favorite horrifying sitting position because he had clearly never heard of circulation, “are going to look at the failures of your predecessors.”

He took Eliot through the history books, the ones Eliot hadn’t dared to check lest he cave under the pressure of his legacy, showing him how it was — the exact opposite.

With every page turn, there were new and more creative horrors, with Quentin’s constant dry, bitchy, beautiful commentary: _King Harry the Ceramicist, he — wow, he thought it’d be a good idea to make all weapons and armor out of clay, fuck, no wonder we’re still using wooden dishes after that,_ and _The Winter King, who apparently_ lost _his_ memory _but insisted he could do his duty anyway, even though he couldn’t remember who anyone in his cabinet was,_ or _High King the Nameless. Literally, she refused to ever tell the court her name, and wouldn’t let anyone see her face. She pissed off so many foreign dignitaries and was so bad at diplomacy that everyone else called her the “Why King” instead of “High King.”_

So — maybe he was right. Maybe Eliot didn’t have to be a great king. Maybe not even a good one, although he would try. Maybe all he had to do was not royally (literally) fuck up the entire kingdom, and Fillory would be okay. They’d clearly gone through worse.

As Quentin put it — “See? You wouldn’t do any of that shit. You know better. Because it’s already _in you._ You can do this, El. Really do this.”

And fuck it all, but Eliot believed him. He let himself smile, and didn’t even break it when footsteps sounded in the hall. If it was a guard coming to take him away and get something done, he could take care of it.

It wasn’t, though. It was Margo, his sharp, amazing Bambi striding in with a wicked grin and a tarnished rapier firm in one hand. She rested the point on the flagstone tiling, hand on her hip and one foot crossed in front of the other.

“I’m gonna learn sword-fighting, bitches,” she declared, a happy glint in her eye, and broke pose to shove her way between them on the dais.

“Woah, watch the! Point of that thing,” Quentin said, flinching back as the tip of her rapier almost caught him in the leg.

“Well, I haven’t learned it _yet,_ ” Margo said, rolling her eyes profusely. “So boys. What’re we doing hiding in the record room?”

Instantly, Quentin looked to Eliot, eyes a little wide. _Way to be subtle, Q._ But Eliot grabbed the book of kings and handed it to Margo to flip through, carefully taking the sword when she tried to balance it hands-free. “All this...High King shit got to my head, is all. Quentin was just showing me what exactly my forerunners did with their job, because it is, um. A _very_ low bar.”

Turning the pages slowly and then faster, a growing look of disbelief fell across Margo’s face. Finally she snapped the book shut, turning to Eliot with a hard look. “These people were all idiotic twats who couldn’t tell a coffer from a coffin. You don’t need to even think about getting past their level, Eliot. Would you make the people eat only grain for months on end because it’s cheap?”

“Uh, no?” he said, startled by her sudden intensity.

“Right. And would you go out into the fields yourself to assess if they suddenly failed and farmers came to you for help?”

“I mean,” a glance at Quentin, who just raised his eyebrows unhelpfully at him, “yeah, if people need it, of course I’ll do what I can to help.”

“There you go,” Margo said, and stood up to take her sword back. At Eliot’s bewildered look, she sighed. “The first question says you’re not a dumbass. Or at least, not when it matters. But the second question,” she stepped in and put a small, warm hand to his cheek, a rare softness passing through her gaze. “That says you’ll be a good king.”

Eliot could feel tears gathering again. But Margo stepped back, letting the moment slip away, and a few blinks cleared his vision without a drop spilt.

“So you’ll be fine,” she said with a shrug. “Just follow those instincts. We’ll be right back. Come along now, Quentin.” And with a wink, she swept back out of the room, leaving them alone again in a rather stunned silence.

After a moment, Quentin broke it with a laugh. “I guess the High Queen hath spoken. You _will_ be a good king.” He turned to face Eliot, smile lines crinkling ruefully. “Time for me to go, though.”

Yeah. It was. Eliot sighed. They had their quest, and Eliot had his. He gathered himself with a full breath, in and out, then turned a smile to Quentin. “Let me walk you out. _King_ Quentin.”

Taking Eliot’s offered arm with a relieved grin, Quentin set them on a path to the portal. “Why thank you. _High King_ Eliot. The Spectacular,” he added with a little mumble that Eliot felt right in his chest.

“You know, if I’d have done yours — I think you’d be King Quentin, the Worthy,” he said quietly, and he wasn’t even aiming to make Q blush, promise. It was just a nice side effect, was all.


End file.
